


The Faun in the Forest

by TheGoodThings



Series: Found in Narnia [1]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fauns & Satyrs, Gen, Kid Sherlock, Talking Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-22
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-26 15:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2656703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodThings/pseuds/TheGoodThings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was shocked by the queerness of it. A lamp post? There was no street nor street corner to speak of. There were no buildings nor fields nor persons around. Beyond the completely functioning lamp post was more trees and more snow and nothing else. Why, then, was there a lamp post sitting here in the middle of the woods?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Birthday Boy

Today was Sherlock’s eighth birthday.

He didn’t very much appreciate his birthday. People so often made such a fuss over the occasion with cakes and gifts, yet it held no significant value in the day to day existence. Sherlock was no different today than the day before and he really didn’t think being eight today was any far stretch from being seven yesterday. The very idea that overnight one could mature enough to be considered _older_ and _wiser_ was simply ridiculous. Age came gradually and knowledge came with _observing_ and _studying_. 

His brother, Mycroft, said birthdays were important because they neatly marked the passage of time – ‘How would you know what level you should attend in school, Sherlock?’, or ‘What about the privileges of maturity?’ Sherlock thought the only reason Mycroft liked birthdays was because he adored eating the cake.

This particular birthday was especially hateful because mummy went against his continued protests and _threw a party_. If mummy wished to gain favors with the CFO of Harrison and Harrison Industries, she could do so without involving Sherlock. It wasn’t his fault the CFO’s daughter continued to harass him at school and he _wasn’t_ going to ‘play nice’, even if mummy promised a compound binocular microscope for his troubles – she would likely go back on her word and claim it was far too ‘adult’ for Sherlock anyways.

By now the party was in full swing without him and he was positive mummy had sent the help to find him, maybe Mycroft as well if she was particularly desperate; they wouldn’t find him and even if they did he _wouldn’t_ go. Presently, he was hiding away in one of the rarely occupied guest rooms of their country-side home with a book titled _‘Corpse: Nature, Forensics, and the Struggle to Pinpoint Time of Death’_ splayed open across his lap. Mummy constantly preached that such books were not meant for children and often insisted he go and play with friends his age instead. 

_Friends_. None of the other children were worthy of being his friend. They were boring, ignorant, and annoying – infuriatingly so. The very idea of interacting with one of those inferior monsters for more than a few moments at a time was preposterous. 

His last attempts at socialization ended disastrously: he’d gotten into trouble before Christmas break when he pointed out how George was lying when he claimed his father bought him a sports car and in reality George’s father had cheated on his mother and they were in the process of a messy divorce. George called Sherlock names like _freak_ and _liar_ and started sobbing, so Sherlock was punished. It wasn’t fair, they was so hateful and he was _never_ going to make friends no matter how much mummy moaned.

The rattle of the doorknob jolted Sherlock out of his thoughts. In an instant he had the book closed and held against his chest, his legs tucked up onto the seat with him. The armchair he occupied was specifically chosen because it faced directly away from the door, obscuring anyone’s view of the seat and Sherlock in it. The door swung open and Sherlock heard someone call his name.

Oh, _brilliant_ , Sherlock rolled his eyes; he was _hiding_ , he wasn’t going to come out when called. Of course, he hadn’t expected much intelligence from the man searching for him – the sound of his steps and smokers rasp identified the assistant chef hired for catering. Sherlock met him briefly and it was _astounding_ how the imbecile still had a paying job. Sherlock relaxed even before the door clacked shut and the faint steps vanished down the hall. Easy, but too close. Mycroft wouldn’t have made the same mistake.

Sherlock climbed from the seat, leaving the book in his place, and made quick inventory of the room: there wasn’t a decent place to hide anywhere. He stalked warily towards the door and listened for any hints of wandering idiots. When he didn’t hear anything, Sherlock opened the door and swung a quick left. There were two other guest rooms on this hall but neither offered better options than the one he left. He’d have better luck with the first floor library.

Three steps from the hall entrance and Sherlock heard voices. Oh, he wasn’t expecting _that_. He took a step back, then another, as the sound of footfalls closed in. He recognized those smug steps anywhere: _Mycroft_. Sherlock spun and dashed to the nearest room, slipping inside he eyed his meager options: the bed – no, too obvious, the chair – no, that was worse than the bed. Could he climb out the window? Not fast enough.

His last option was the old wardrobe stuffed against the far wall. The antique piece of furniture appeared dusty and forgotten, likely never put to any proper use. It was far from the ideal spot to hide.

The approaching footfalls were closing in and Sherlock was out of time. He bounded across the room on the tips of his toes, hopped inside the armoire and pulled the door close, leaving just a sliver of light when the door refused to shut completely. He made it inside mere seconds before the room was invaded.

“Sherlock?” the annoying Mycroft called, “This will be easier if you come out now.”

 _No way_. Sherlock shook his head. The wardrobe was filled with old coats and furs that smelled of mothballs and likely hadn’t seen the light of day in years. He scooted further behind the line of winter wear to obscure the doors of the wardrobe; it wouldn’t be enough, Mycroft would definitely find him once the doors were peeled back. With a growing worry twisting his gut his hand shifted behind him, stretched out to meet the rear of the wardrobe as he scooted further and further back.

Almost too far back. 

_Definitely_ too far back. Sherlock recoiled when he felt a cold prickle against his outstretched hand. He whirled to meet a preposterous sight: pine needles. There were pine needles inside this impossibly deep wardrobe. Sherlock stared at the bundles of long green needles, skewering forth from the twisted brown branch from which they clung. Neither dead nor fake, the branch must have been cut from its tree as recently as that morning and dropped here for reasons Sherlock could not gather without more data. 

It hung somewhere in the dark that Sherlock couldn’t see the origins. He latched onto the end and tugged, only the branch did not come freely, instead it rustled and heaved and wobbled with Sherlock’s pull. The sounds of shifting needles reached his ears from deeper in the dark, disturbed by his fruitless yanks. The wardrobe must be bigger still, but _how_? It sat upon a peripheral wall!

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s muffled annoyance called from just outside his hidden sanctuary. Sherlock’s attention jumped to the wardrobe doors behind the row of mothball tainted coats. It was only a matter of seconds before his brother discovered his location. There was only one thing to do: throwing caution to the wind, Sherlock turned and hurried deeper into into the improbable wardrobe.


	2. A Meeting at the Lamp Post

Sherlock pushed through dozens upon dozens of branches heavy with needles and pine cones; they simply didn’t end. Everything was so dense and dark that Sherlock could only duck his head and trudge on. The branches poked and grabbed at him and the needles itched and tickled his face. He worried that this might be all there was and that he would arrive at the end with nothing to show but a few scratches and needle clusters in his hair. There must be more; there had to be more.

Quite suddenly, he stumbled out of the thick branches and, for a moment, he feared he had turned around in the darkness and just walked into Mycroft’s grubby clutches. When he opened his eyes again, however, it was not the door, the spare room, nor Mycroft that he saw. What he did see he could hardly believe: trees sat in open clusters all around him, covered with snow with even more laid thick on the ground – it hadn’t snowed enough to warrant this much cover all winter. He bent down to touch the white blanket, then he put some in his mouth to have it melt to water. 

Somehow, Sherlock had found an entire eco system inside an old armoire in a spare room. It was all quite improbably and apparently not impossible. He knew this could not be happening, and yet here he stood: among grand trees and heavy snow and there was nothing to do but laugh. “Marvelous,” he cried out into the cold air, allowing himself to bask in the wonder of his discovery before he tucked his hands into his armpits and trudged on. There was so much to see, he couldn’t turn back now.

The further he walked, the more Sherlock knew he was walking in an honest forest. It was nighttime here and the forest was dim and quiet, he could occasionally catch starlight through the thick branches and needles crowding above him and the moon must be somewhere because he was not completely blinded by darkness. It was cold – He probably should have grabbed one of those old coats, but it was too late to go back. By now Mycroft would have found the trees and snow. Mycroft would be scared and want Sherlock to come back immediately, but this place was wonderful, not scary and he walked just a little bit faster to prove it.

He wondered, as he walked, if there was even an end to this wardrobe at all. There were stars here, feasibly he wasn’t in the wardrobe at all anymore; perhaps he was somehow transported to a different place on earth entirely. Things like this happening in story books, not real life. Sherlock imagined if anyone knew the wardrobe was capable of this sort of instant transportation, it wouldn’t be sitting in a spare room gathering dust. Therefore, Sherlock discovered something _new_ and _exciting_. Oh, it was like ten of his favorite things all rolled up into one big adventure! 

In the distance, a light blinked into view between tree trunks, drawing Sherlock from his revelry to puzzle out what it might be. Definitely artificial with its soft, consistent glow. It wasn’t moving about so it probably wasn’t a torch and there was only one of them so it wasn’t likely going to be some house or building either. Maybe it was some sort of shed, or ranger station given the rural woods he found himself in. Sherlock pushed his way through the underbrush to come upon the small clearing where the light was permeating. His eyes lift as he cleared the clustered branches to the light’s source. It was… a lamp post.

Sherlock was shocked by the queerness of it. A lamp post? There was no street nor street corner to speak of. There were no buildings nor fields nor persons around. Beyond the completely functioning lamp post was more trees and more snow and nothing else. Why, then, was there a lamp post sitting here in the middle of the woods? Sherlock approached the post carefully to touch it with his fingers. It was solid enough – freezing too – and gave off enough light to illuminate the entire clearing. Sherlock walked a circle around the post, then dug into the snow at his feet, expecting sidewalk or asphalt or maybe even wardrobe floor, but there was only dirt and dead needles to be found. This was a conundrum. 

“Hello?”

The greeting was light and curious, but Sherlock jump nonetheless. He spun around in time to catch sight of the owner just stepping into the clearing. The man had an open face and a friendly, if concerned, smile. That wasn’t what had gotten Sherlock’s immediate attention, however. What struck him first was the short, blunt pair of dark brown horns rising up out of the short, sandy blonde hair just above forehead. They sat evenly spaced and rose at a slight curve just a few centimeters out from the disheveled locks of hair. If that wasn’t odd enough, there were those ears sprouting from the side of his head. They were long, furry and floppy! Sherlock glanced about his head, searching for some head band or strap on to the toy, but he didn’t see any immediate evidence so he investigated the man as a whole instead.

The man was wearing a red knit scarf without a hint of a shirt under it despite the cold. A strap coiled around his shoulder, bearing the weight of an old leather shoulder bag sitting on his hip and… and…

“What are those!?” Sherlock wailed, pointing as he did to the furry legs sprouting from the stranger’s hips. Those certainly weren’t _human_ legs. They were covered in the same colour hair as that on top of his head, only it seemed courser and a bit curlier. The legs curved with odd joints that ended in two dark hooves instead of feet. They were _goat_ legs and they were _cool_. Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from approaching the fascinating specimen.

“Those?” The man’s curious tones rose over his marveling and he looked down to the ground, seeking out some unknown items Sherlock might have been referring to. He turned in a half circle to seek out these mysterious ‘those’s.

“Ah!” Sherlock shrieked at the short curl sprouting from the man’s butt, “You have a TAIL!”

“Oh!” The man spun back around to give the boy a startled look, “Well of course I have a tail. Haven’t you ever seen a faun before?” 

It was meant to be a rhetorical question, perhaps, but Sherlock shook his head with a furious passion. Of course he’d never seen a faun before. There was nothing like this back home – nothing so fascinating. Before this ‘faun’ could protest, Sherlock had reached out and grabbed hold two hand fulls of fur from the faun’s hip and tugged. The resulting yelp made Sherlock grin – the fur was _real_. He then shift his hands down the leg, feeling the muscles, the hard bones of the joints and the soft and coarse layers of fur covering it all. He almost made it down to the glossy black hoof before the faun jerked his leg away with an indignant huff. Looking back up to the faun, Sherlock realized the creature had been speaking throughout his examination.

“– listening to me? Its rude to just.. just.. you could ask permission, at least. In all my time – have you no sense of boundaries, little boy?” The goat man puttered down at Sherlock while he watched the way the legs moved as they made a flustered sway in the snow. They were _real_ and this wasn’t a dream and it was all so wonderful!

“Can I touch your horns?” Sherlock put on his best pleading face, the one that always worked on the housekeeper and sometimes worked on Mycroft. It certainly made the goatman pause mid-fuss, his expression going soft and concerned.

“Now see here, we haven’t even had a proper introduction.” The faun shifted his shoulder with the strap and pressed a hand into the old leather of his bag, then he bowed just a little bit like people were suppose to do for royalty, “My name is John Watson.”

“Jooohn?” Sherlock cried out before the goatman - John - could get any further. 

His sudden outburst certainly startled the man, “Yes? What’s wrong?” 

“John is such a _boring_ name for something like you. Why did it have to be ‘John’?” Sherlock demanded adamantly, only to make a face at his own outburst. What he said was one of those things he shouldn’t say to people because it was ‘rude’, and he usually got yelled at for it. He wished he hadn’t said it, he didn’t want the faun mad at him. John was _interesting_ , even if his name was not.

John didn’t get mad, though. John smiled. “Oh-hoh? Is that so? And what is _your_ name, then?”

“Sherlock.” He answered, anxiously. “Sherlock Holmes.”


	3. Questions, Curiosities, and the Promise of Tea

“Sherlock.” He answered, anxiously. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John chuckled and that, in turn, had Sherlock staring up at the man in wonder. “Well, of course ‘John’ is going to be dull compared to a name like _Sherlock_.” John smiled a knowing smile, “Right, it’s nice to meet you. Can you-”

“Can I touch your horns now, please?” Whatever John was going to say could wait. Sherlock needed to ensure those horns were real. John’s odd ears twitched a little and the faun hesitated, so Sherlock quickly added, “I said please.”

“Yes.” John hummed, “Yes, alright, you did say please. Here, but don’t tug.” Sherlock would agree to almost anything at that point. He reached out as the faun bent his head down, legs folding so he was crouching down to Sherlock’s level.

Small, cold fingers immediately curled over the two bony structures. The dark brown horns were wide at the base and tapered off quickly, making them approximately 4 centimeters in length. The skin was definitely fused at the base and when he pulled they–

“Hey, what did I say about the tugging,” The faun huffed and Sherlock reluctantly released him, his hands folding sheepishly under his armpits once more.

“They’re really attached.” He indicated as John stood up and straightened his hair, “And those are real too” He looked down to the goat like legs. “So you are a ‘faun’, as you claim, as long as a ‘faun’ is defined in some measure as a part goat and part human creature.”

That statement had John looking slightly puzzled and Sherlock thought he had said something wrong again. He hadn’t thought he had this time, but it wasn’t unusual for the littlest things to upset people. It was ridiculous to expect him to keep up with all the rules and now that he wasn’t even on Earth any more – he deduced that earlier when he first saw the faun – he was sure there were whole different guidelines of behavior that he didn’t even know about yet.

“Sorry.” Sherlock tried to lessen whatever blow he had dealt. Normally he didn’t bother, but then again normally he didn’t meet goat men in the middle of improbable forests.

“You said human,” John seemed to mull over this fact intently as he bent down to study Sherlock a bit closer. “You are human, aren’t you? Where are you from?” 

“I don’t want to say.” John’s concern rang alarm bells. Were human’s disliked here? Would the faun send him away? He balked at the very idea, “You’ll want me to go back home, and I don’t want to.” There were too many unanswered questions and too many grand things waiting for him to discover. He wouldn’t go. He _wouldn’t_. Sherlock shifted from foot to foot and glared up at John just to make his point clear.

“Hold on, now, you shouldn’t be wandering around the forest alone. You must be freezing. If I walk with you–”

“No!” Sherlock shook his head furiously once more, “I don’t want to go back! You can’t make me!” He was contemplating the effectiveness of stomping his feet when he felt a warm hand on the top of his head. He was about to shake it off when soft, not angry words met his gruff tantrum. 

“Easy, no need to start shouting.” John ruffled his wild curls, “You’ll freeze out here on your own. Would you prefer to stay at my home for the night? I’m sure I have some tea I could–”

“Yes.” His nod was quick, “Yes, I would like that. Lead the way,” John couldn’t take it back now. This way he could miss his mother’s party completely and learn all he wanted about the new world. Mummy always warned him about going home with strangers, but she probably didn’t intend that to include strange fauns too and, besides, she wouldn’t want him dying of exposure either. She would be worried when he did not come out of the wardrobe by dinner, but surely she would understand, this was a grand discovery! Compromises must be made for the sake of enlightenment.

John made a humming sound, as if he might be reconsidering his offer, but Sherlock ignored it. “Lead the way.” He repeated insistently while he nodded towards John. The faun surrendered at last and guided Sherlock away from the clearing, opposite his entrance.

The glossy hooves were silent as John picked his way around the branches and brush lining the small snow covered path. Sherlock wondered if it was a skill or a natural ability allowing the faun’s careful, silent steps. It made Sherlock look a bit silly the way he marched loudly on behind him, not that Sherlock ever learned how to be graceful and quiet – maybe he could learn now that he had a whole forest to play in – maybe John could teach him. 

Sherlock’s gaze turned then from the nimble hooves up to the back of John’s head. Thinking back now, the man had looked tired and worn, even when he smiled. There were shadows under his eyes that meant at least a few late nights were had recently. Looking up to the stars, Sherlock wondered what time it was now and why John happened to be wandering about in the middle of the night. Sherlock tilted his head in an attempt to study the bag slung over John’s shoulder but without the lamp the bag was barely more than a lump of brown in the dim light. 

It was difficult to tell much more about the man without knowing the differences between faun and human. Sherlock learned about humans all his life but this was the first faun he’d ever seen. John was nicer than most adults he’d ever met, did that mean all fauns were nice or just John? Was John always nice, or was this an act Sherlock misinterpreted? This needed further study.

“Where are we?” Sherlock queried as he watched John’s inhuman ears twitch. He wondered how much better, or worse, the faun could hear compared to the average human.

“You don’t know?” John tilted his head over his shoulder, “You are a strange one, Sherlock. Are you sure–”

“I don’t want to go home.” He insisted quickly.

“Right.” John quirked both eyebrows up, “but how did you end up here?”

“Where is ‘here’? I’ve never been here before.”

“You’re in Narnia.” John sighed, “everything from Lantern Waste to the Eastern Sea and Cair Paravel. That is Narnia.”

“Lantern Waste. So the lamp post is a marker.” Sherlock concluded, happy to just have a reason for the strange post, “Marking the edge of Narnia. _That_ is why it is there.”

“I suppose?” John offered, “It has always been, even in my grandfather’s days.”

“You’ve always lived here?” Sherlock assumed this was, in fact, Lantern Waste, “are there a lot of fauns?”

“Not as many as there once was,” John shrugged his unburdened shoulder, “Many have moved further into the mountains of the western wilds and out of Narnian territory.”

“What for?” he insisted John continue, but the faun only shrugged again. This time he didn’t follow it up with an answer and his tail kept twitching, so Sherlock tried a different question, “are there human’s here?”

“Not in Narnia – not any more,” the path widened ahead of them and Sherlock slid in beside the faun, earning a small smile from John, “No human has been seen in Narnia in over a hundred years. They stay in the south, in countries like Archenland or Calormene, which makes me wonder where you could have possibly come from.”

“None of those places,” Mummy would be furious if Sherlock disappeared because he was dragged across the face of a foreign world and stuck with humans that weren’t his humans. They couldn’t possibly be the same humans. Of course, there was just too many unknown elements to assume. Like how could there be humans in a world that was not earth, did they evolve separately? Did they look like his humans, or was it simply a misinterpretation? John could simply be making assumptions, he couldn’t possibly be old enough to have seen a human in Narnia a hundred years ago – negate that, not enough data to assume he _isn’t_ old enough, or perhaps instead he witnessed humans elsewhere; he never answered Sherlock’s inquiry stating otherwise. 

More likely the mystery humans came the same way as Sherlock: through an entrance that shouldn’t exist. Clearly these portals have existed for quite some time, if humans were here at least a hundred years – unless Narnia years were different; not enough data.

Even so, how did fauns exist separate from humans and yet so similar? At some point in this world’s history, had human evolution diverged so greatly? How did such an evolution duplicate completely separate mammalian traits so perfectly? Unless it wasn’t evolution at all. He had never considered cross species breeding, it wasn’t possible on Earth, but he shouldn’t dismiss it so quickly without proper understanding. He wondered if it was rude to ask John if he shared ancestry with a common goat. Sherlock decided to tuck that question away for later.

Given the grand mystery of fauns, there was also the curious case of language. The faun spoke English well enough for it to be a first language. Not only that, but his accent was highly similar to the accent found in the southern United Kingdom. Yes, there were some differences: differences enough that Sherlock could detect them. He wished he had studied linguistics more, but the subject had never proven fruitful until that moment.

Sherlock had not realized he had gone quiet in pensive contemplation until he was nudged very gently upon the shoulder. He looked back to the faun as he pushed out the last low branch to come into a rocky hollow. He moved out of the way to show Sherlock there was a carved wooden door illuminated by a hanging lamp among the rocks of the hollow. Of course John wouldn’t live in a regular house. 

Sherlock stepped out of the crop of trees and quite suddenly felt the bite of the wind a bit more fiercely. He shivered against the cold before he felt a weight against his back and he looked to see John urging him forward.

“Come now, before you catch yourself a cold. I’ll have a fire going and warm tea in no time” the faun insisted.

“Everyone knows you get colds from viruses, not the actual temperature of your surroundings.” Sherlock enlightened the faun, but he let John lead him inside anyway.


	4. A Cluttered Home for a Curious Faun

Inside the heavy wooden door was a house far more homely than anything Sherlock expected. It was almost something out of a story book and, Sherlock determined, fit perfectly with his new faun acquaintance. Parts of the wall were smooth stone while other parts were built with a rich amber colored wood. The floor was hardwood as well, though most of the open room was covered in layers of different, colorful rugs – they were a bit old and dusty on closer inspection. Two wooden chairs – one rocking – sat snugly in front of a cold fireplace. To either side of it were bookshelves carved into the stone and covered with dozens of leather bound books trimmed with gold or silver. 

Around the room there was a table, more chairs, a number of trunks, and cabinets filled to the brim and covered with clutter. The lighting was soft – only two lanterns and a waxy candle were burning yellow flames in the large room. No windows were there to let in what little starlight there was and the chill in the room reminded Sherlock that the fireplace was empty – he hoped John would build one quickly. 

There were so many stories here that Sherlock could only half see and he could hardly suppress the overwhelming need to go through every little bit of property John owned and flesh out the entire history of this little house. John didn’t have a housekeeper like Sherlock, but somehow this room seemed a lot more alive than any room in Sherlock’s own house. 

The house was inherited by John from his parents, Sherlock could observe that much, but they didn’t live with John any more. Most of the items belonged to them but John was unwilling to throw anything out, leaving everything to sit and gather dust until maybe John found use for something. The books belonged to John though, or at least he cared for them better than anything else Sherlock could see.

While John fussed with the fireplace, Sherlock moved about, touching different things in his crooked path and picking up what he thought was most fascinating. Items such as the elephant carving that had once been painted but now it was faded and scuffed. It was cracked on its back left foot where it had been stepped on. It was a child’s possession and more interestingly: if Sherlock twisted the trunk just right it’s back opened up to reveal a hidden compartment. He was disappointed to see the secret space wasn’t being utilized and he quickly lost interest. 

There was a dagger that caught his attention next, it had a yellowing handle which–

“Careful.” Came the fauns wary voice from over by the fireplace. “That was my fathers. It’s sharper than it looks, best leave that one alone.” he went back to setting the logs at the hearth and Sherlock put the dagger back down. 

“What’s the handle made out of?” He wandered closer to the faun when the fire was lit, the small bit of warmth was a promise of more to come. There were biscuits laid out by the chairs and Sherlock snatched a few in hand before John could object. He never did. They had the taste of cinnamon and apples.

“Orc bone,” John leaned back when the fire no longer threatened to die out. He left Sherlock to warm with his biscuits and went to putter about with some items in a far corner cabinet. “My father told me once that he slayed the orc himself and took the arm as a prize.”

“There are _orcs_ here?” Sherlock latched on to the idea. He knew what orcs were. Big green things with ugly teeth and small brains, “What else is here? Elves? Hobbits? Uh..” Sherlock paused. He didn’t know many more mythical creatures. If he had known it would be important, he would have studied in advance. “Unicorns?”

John’s soft laugh left Sherlock a bit annoyed, it was a _serious_ question. He watched the faun come back to hang a kettle on the crane set in the fireplace stone. He adjusted the kettle over the fire then went to rest upon the one of the two chairs – the one that didn’t rock. “You really aren’t from here, are you?” 

John looked at him with so much interest that it made Sherlock’s already flushed cheeks turn a little pinker. “No. I’m from London,” he wondered if he should add ‘Earth’ to that, “it isn’t like here at all.” 

“London,” the faun tested the word, “What is in London, if not fauns and orcs and the like?” 

“Just boring humans. Homo Sapiens.” Sherlock made a huffing noise as he moved away from the fire, finally warm enough not to crowd the mantel. He might have said more, but the look John suddenly had that troubled look on his face that made Sherlock waver. Did he say something wrong again?

“And you. You’re human? Son of Adam, absolutely certain?” John ventured a bit more warily.

“Human, yeah. My father’s name is Siger, though.” he added: “Is that a bad thing, here? You never said...”

“Well, that isn’t –” John had started, but in that moment two things happened that brought pause to John’s words. First, the kettle on the fire began to whistle out hot steam, and Second, a crow started cawing quite insistently outside the front door. Perhaps it was a raven, Sherlock couldn’t be sure without seeing it.

“Oh-” John got up from the chair to fetch a mitten and hook to remove the kettle. He carried it across the room and set it by a tray to prepare one mug of tea with some urgency, “Sherlock, I need to attend to an emergency outside,” There was a few moments of silence while he finished with the tea and brought the tray to the fire and set it beside the biscuits. There was sugar, but disappointingly no milk. “I want you to stay here until I return. Can you do that?”

_Of course not_. Sherlock smiled politely as he dunked a cube of sugar in the dark liquid, “will you be long?”

“No, I shouldn’t,” John was quick to snatch the leather satchel he’d once abandoned on one of the chairs by the table and slung it over his shoulder. He climbed the two steps to the foyer and pulled the red scarf from the stud on the wall. “Mind the tea, its hot, and don’t..” John paused, hands skittering across the room, “don’t touch anything that looks dangerous. Ta.”

A blast of cold wind signaled his departure and, with him, the incessant cawing just outside. Curious. Sherlock managed to stay put all of thirty seconds before he sprang from his chair and chased the promise of adventure out the door – biscuits stuffed into pockets as he went.


	5. Trouble in Paradise

Sherlock followed the fresh tracks through the forest with scantily contained anticipation. What could possibly have compelled the faun to abandon his house and guest only after just arriving – and to the call of a crow of all things! He moved in a jog with his arms tucked close against his chest until he came to find flickering lamp lights and quiet whispers of conversation – other fauns, perhaps? Sherlock didn’t wait to speculate, he pushed through the last barrier of pine branches to the chorus of startled gasps and quite suddenly he became the focal point of a half dozen frozen, frightened animals.

And John.

John was hunched over a bundle in the snow, but his eyes were trained on Sherlock, looking both surprised and a bit admonishing – the reason likely being Sherlock’s disobedience, but _honestly_ how could John expect him to stay when everything was so _interesting_ in this world? 

The other figures in the clearing were watching him with fretting, expressive eyes – three rabbits, two porcupines, and a fox. They were larger than the animals back home and, more shockingly, they had _clothes_ : a battered, grey flat cap sat between fox ears, scarves embraced three furry necks, and one of the rabbits even wore a vest. They weren’t standing like real animals but rather they stood upon hind legs – the porcupines were holding hands for god’s sake! These weren’t animals at all, they were _caricatures_ from a story book. He was staring in earnest at these odd fairy tail parodies when John broke the tense silence Sherlock had created.

“Sherlock. What did I say about staying put?” He made the usual noises adults made when Sherlock had disobeyed.

“I was frightened,” Sherlock lied with a downturn of his head and a pout of his bottom lip, he looked up to John from under the curls of his hair, hoping to see sympathy from the faun. John, however, only looked at him with suspicious disbelief. 

“I say, do you know this.. this.. dwarf, Sir Watson?” The fox spoke with a flash of white canines and a flick of the ear, sounding uncertain of the word ‘dwarf’ applied to the boy before them. It _spoke_ and Sherlock whirled his head around to it. Pout and play forgotten, he couldn’t stop staring at it – him by the depth of his voice.

“You can talk!” Sherlock grinned. He spun around and approached the fox, “Say something else, I–”

“Sherlock!” John’s cry brought his attention snapping back to the faun, then down to what he was still crouching over. It wasn’t until then that he noticed the blood. It was a dead body? A dead rabbit, in fact.

“What happened?” Sherlock craned his neck and stumbled closer. The rabbit was indeed dead, its head laid in an awkward angle and there was an an ugly spray of blood soaked into the white snow around it. It reminded him of a cat he found once that had been hit by a car. He dropped to a crouch and reached down to turn it’s head, but John’s hand snapped around his wrist and stopped his advance with a surprisingly firm, but gentle, hold, “What?” He whined, “It’s just a rabbit.”

There were several appalled gasps around him and Sherlock looked about at all the horrified faces. His eyes set upon John’s frown last of all and he mirrored the frown with perplexion. “Not good?”

”A bit not good, yeah,” John had his head tilted at a slight bend when he released his hold on Sherlock, “best not to touch. Mr. Hornsworth was a nice old rabbit.” 

But Sherlock could help. He wanted to help. “A dog did this. More than one, see,” it was so obvious, he could almost watch the brief struggle play out before his eyes, “there are bite marks around his neck and across his back and look, there are prints here and–” His eyes followed the disturbed layer of snow to a squat opening under an old tree stump. Lantern light illuminated the cavity and Sherlock saw with a growing thrill that inside was the rabbit’s home. 

“They came from in there.” Clambering to his feet, Sherlock ran past the dead body and down into the narrow opening. It was hardly big enough for someone his size but he squeezed in just in time to avoid the grabbing hands of a flustered faun.

“You shouldn’t be in there!” John’s voice bit with a cloud of frustration and maybe fear, but it bewildered Sherlock to hear no anger rolling off John. Adults were always angry with him when he disobeyed – they were so predictable that way. It must be a trick. Sherlock chanced a look back to the entrance where John could not quite squeeze through to grab him.

“The house has been torn apart!” Sherlock reported when he began to explore the warm space unhindered. Like John’s, this home was surprisingly cozy – or it would have been, once upon a time. The rabbit den consisted of just the one open room, but the whole of it was ransacked into ruin. A single bed was overturned and the mattress stuffing was strewn across the floor – the frame cracked beyond repair, a small table laid on its side by an iron stove – the fire was still burning hot inside the belly. The rest of the room’s content had either been broken or tossed carelessly out of it’s proper position. It might have been nice, once. Now it looked desolate and sad – sad? Could a house look ‘sad’? Depressed, perhaps. 

He stepped past an overturned bowl of what looked like a thin stew in his search for answers. Why here? Why kill a rabbit and not eat it? Isn’t that what dogs did? No, that wasn’t right. The dogs don’t think like dogs, the fox spoke and the rabbit was living cozy in a cottage. Think intelligently. They were here for a reason and that reason had to be speaking to Sherlock through tells and hints peaking out from the chaos. The answer struck Sherlock like a bolt of lightning. 

“They were looking for something,” Sherlock blurted out, “The mess they were making, it had a pattern –”

“Sherlock!” John’s call was ever insistent, but he kept talking. He wanted to _help_.

“They couldn’t find what they were looking for,” Sherlock turned and grinned at the faun he could just make out crouching outside the door, “They wrecked this place real bad at the end, I think it was because they couldn’t find it!” So that means whatever was worth killing over was still here. 

“I can find it. I can find what they were looking for,” Sherlock reached out and touched a broken trunk, then pulled his hand back and looked around. Where could it be? This was going to be tricky. He just had to think. Something important was hidden, but not in the obvious places. It– “Ah!”

His time was out. John had wrestled himself in deep enough to grab at his arm while he was distracted. Sherlock wiggled ferociously, but he was wrapped tight in curled arms, “I can! I can find it, let me help!”

“Hush, Sherlock, please,” John’s words were pleading while he dragged Sherlock back through the entrance and into the cold night air. The faun had tugged Sherlock against his chest and held him as if he would be ripped away at any moment. The very notion was enough to paralyze Sherlock into submission.

“I could have,” He protested, but the fight had left him and he slumped against the faun’s warm hold with a defeated huff.

“I know. I know you could have,” John was attempting to mollify him, he must be. Sherlock swiveled his head around to catch a look at the faun’s expression, but what he saw bit back any scathing remark Sherlock might have thought up.

John looked worried – scared even. For Sherlock? He didn’t look upset, angry or anything Sherlock expected. Why? “What’s wrong?”

“I’ll explain at the house,” John promised with a thin smile, “Will you walk?”

He nodded and John eased his hold and took Sherlock’s hand in his. The grip was firm but not constrictive. The hand itself was blunt and scarred, the pads of his hands were rough with use – working hands, though _what_ work he wasn’t sure. There was a bit of fur over the top of the hand that joined with the longer hairs of his arm and the palm was surprisingly warm, despite the chill in the air. These were nothing like the smooth, pampered hands of his mother or Mycroft and he found that he didn’t hate holding this hand all that much. John began to move and he followed, his eyes drifting back to the now empty clearing. 

The talking creatures were gone, even Mr. Hornsworth spot in the snow was nothing now but a red stain upon white. Where had they gone? Sherlock could see a few tracks leading away from the clearing, but they disappeared into the tree line and with them Sherlock’s hope for finding their destination. “They all left?” He had to know, but all John surrendered was a soft hum in confirmation. He had promised to say more at the house, so Sherlock took comfort in that knowledge and let the faun lead him back once more. 

His thoughts returned to the rabbit den as the silence between them stretched. The dogs were searching for something important. He wanted to know what it might be, and where it could be. It was a puzzle he knew he could solve, if only he were given the chance.


	6. Empty Handed

The den was far more cozy the second time he stepped through the threshold of John’s home. The fire had done wonders to banish the cold, stiff air and he promptly kicked off his soaked shoes and abandoned the faun at the door to warm himself by the fireplace once again. A chill ran down his spine, chased away by the heat of the hearth and already Sherlock was feeling less like a popsicle and more like himself again. 

The abandoned tea still sat between the chairs, long gone room temperature with their absence. John had moved to retrieve the kettle while Sherlock warmed himself and now he was preparing it again to be placed over the fire. A second attempt at tea, then. He felt like he’d be more receptive this time, given that no more crows found need to interrupt them.

He had hoped the arrival to the pleasant cottage would bring John out of the anxious state he had been in since Sherlock was dragged from the rabbit’s house, but John’s continued silence was unsettling. His posture was tense and his fingers would curl or spread with a flicker of urgency, as though he wished for something to hold. Dozens of other tells were already captured and categorized from their journey back to the cottage: the way his brow would furl, or his lower lip would be clutched in worrying teeth, or how he continued to search the forest around them. What Sherlock couldn’t puzzle out was why the faun had become so tensed and stressed so suddenly. Surely a dog attack could not make him so.. frightened. 

Perhaps he feared the dogs had not retreated completely – a rabbit would not have stood a chance and it was natural prey, but would a pack of dogs attack a faun unprovoked? Perhaps, if there were enough of them. It would explain the animals’ quick disappearances as well. Had Sherlock missed a signal while he was sequestered in the rabbit’s burrow? A twig snap or bird call that alerted all but him of the coming danger?

He tracked the faun as his nimble hooves carried him back to the fire before Sherlock, returning the kettle to the crane over the fire. He then took the tray of forgotten tea and retreated once more, leaving Sherlock longing for conversation. “Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock moaned his impatience, “Will you tell me why I couldn’t keep looking? It was because of the dogs, wasn’t it?”

John cast a mildly surprised, contemplative look over his shoulder at his outburst, but suddenly there was a flickering smile on his face that seemed to wipe out the stress, if only for a brief moment, “How did you know they were searching for something?”

“Because!” Sherlock forced out. They never believed him, they never just trusted his words and they always wanted him to explain the easiest of connections. This was where all the adults stopped listening to him, or got angry with him, or punished him for being too observant. 

He flung himself into the rocking chair and launched into a fierce wobbling rock before he continued, “All the cabinets and trunks were flung open and emptied, the pots were all smashed and everything was spread out, even the mattress was ripped open and searched. If they simply wanted to make a mess, they wouldn’t have been so keen on cleaning out the hidden crevices so meticulously. The dogs were looking for something, John, you have to believe me!”

“I do,” John settled into the chair beside Sherlock’s, his gaze briefly cast the rocking chair an appraising glance. Sherlock was still rocking quite ferociously upon the creaking contraption. “You’re a very clever boy,” he laid back in his own chair, “brilliant, in fact.”

“Really?” he studied John’s face again, seeking some hints of a lie or attempts at pacifying Sherlock’s agitation, but John was watching the fire now, his head tilted in a brief nod.

“They were wolves,” Sherlock stilled the rocking chair so that he could focus completely on what John was saying. Of course, _wolves_. Sherlock couldn’t have known they weren’t dogs but it still bothered him that he had gotten a detail wrong. He’d never seen a live wolf before, “and wolves are very dangerous creatures. When you came, everyone was spooked already, and I feared the wolves might be interested in returning,” he got back to his cloven hooves when the kettle began to sing, “especially if they never found what they were looking for in the first place.”

John went to fix the tea and left Sherlock sitting by the fire. So he was right about John being frightened by the wolves. If he was truly afraid of them, then there was an obvious chance that they could attack unprovoked, but why? Were wolves starving here? Did they not live like the talking animals in quaint little huts? What, then, would there reasoning be for attacking a defenseless creature, because that was what Mr. Hornsworth was, and what did the rabbit have that a wolf could want?

There were too many questions and not enough evidence. Sherlock groaned and thrust his feet into the ground, launching his chair once more into a wide arch as John’s voice came from his left. He turn to watch the faun set out the new tray, now with two mugs, upon the side table. “Why can animals talk?” Sherlock demanded more than asked. He needed information.

“Why can… they’ve always talked,” John fixed him with a puzzled look once he had settled down in the chair and began stirring sugar into his tea, “can they not where you are from?”

Sherlock shook his head furiously, “There are stories and movies, but those are for children.” He ignored the brief, amused smile that had found it’s way to John’s expression. He gave up his frustrated rocking to reach out and take own mug from the tray. He sniffed at the tea; it smelled like honey and tasted sweet before Sherlock had added sugar. He took a few moments to simply enjoy the taste and the way it warmed him on the inside, “Can all animals talk?”

“No, not necessarily,” John supplied, “There are many wild beasts without the gift.”

“But wolves can, at least the one’s who killed Mr. Hornsworth.” John’s suddenly wary expression meant Sherlock’s trail of inquiry wasn’t appreciated. John didn’t want to talk about the wolves, so he had to push, “You know something about them? Why are they bad?”

“Sherlock, I think that’s enough.” John urged, “You’ll be returning home tomorrow and -”

“And then it won’t matter if I know or not, so tell me, please?” Sherlock kept insisting, his mug held tight between his warmed hands, forgotten after the first few warming sip, “what is it that makes them bad?”

“They simply are, Sherlock, now here,” John suddenly seemed eager to be done with such talk and he was up out of his chair in moments and across the room to a trunk, from which he began to dig through, “I have blankets, and it is awfully late. I think it is time for you to sleep soon. There is a cot over here you can-”

“I’m not tired, and I want to know about the wolves,” Sherlock’s voice grew urgent as he watched the faun pull out an arm full of blankets. He was avoiding answering and Sherlock hated it, why was he keeping secrets? What was so terrible that he couldn’t say? “I want to know why they killed the rabbit.”

“It isn’t important.” John insisted as he dropped the blankets on what Sherlock had thought was another shelf, but as he cleaned up the piles of books and loose papers, he realized that was the cot John had mentioned, “all you need to know is that they could hurt you very badly if they ever met you.”

“But _why_ ,” Sherlock cried out as he climbed from the chair, “Why would they? What reasoning sits in their wolf brains? I don’t understand.”

John straightened, his chest heaved a deep breath as Sherlock came to him, tea forgotten on the tray. When he turned, Sherlock expected frustration, but instead John’s expression reflected resignation and maybe fondness as he affectionately brushed Sherlock’s hair before his rough hands tucked under Sherlock’s arms and lift him into the cot. He was about to protest such an action, feeling it was a bit too childish, but his words died before they came out when the faun spoke again, “Of course you can’t let it go, you’re too inquisitive for your own good. Will you promise to lay down and try to sleep if I tell you?”

He already knew it wouldn’t be enough to sate his growing curiosity, but he felt this would be his only chance to pry some actual story out of the faun so he forced himself to swallow his words and nod. “Yes, of course, tell me.”

“Right,” John drew in a slow breath as he ran his hands down his hips. He took a moment, maybe to decide what parts to say and what to leave out? Then he pulled up a chair and set beside the cot. Sherlock, still unwilling to give into the thought of sleep, sat cross legged with his hands clasped upon his shins. His eyes drift down to the goat legs in the sitting position. They curved easily from the chair and sat like they had done so hundreds of times before, yet they seemed so foreign and awkward, Sherlock wondered if he’d ever get use to the sight.

“Narnia is under the rule of a very cruel man,” John began and Sherlock’s attention snapped back to John’s face, “A man who tolerates very little from anyone. He uses the wolves as his personal guard. It has been such for many years now.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened with understanding, “So if the wolves were after Mr. Hornsworth...”

“Then he has done something to upset the wizard,” John finished for him and suddenly Sherlock was laughing. It earned him a startled look from John.

“Wizard? As in, a magic man with a big white beard and a starry blue pointed hat?” Sherlock made a triangle above his head with his hands and smiled when John looked at him as if he must be mad, “Without the hat, then?” Sherlock pushed.

“Ah.. no,” John sighed, “I know it must be difficult to understand, but he is a very bad man. I cannot have you involved. If the wolves were searching for something in that house, it is best that they find it and leave, before anyone else is hurt.”

“Then they will be back?” Sherlock’s smile was gone and his hands settled in his lap once more. So it was more serious than he assumed. Wolves and wizards and did that mean magic as well? His first instinct was to believe John was having a go at him, that all of this was suddenly some big farce and Sherlock would see through the cracks at any second. Yet, John was still very much the faun in front of him and that wasn’t going away. Whatever this world was, it was no dream nor story.

“Yes,” John pulled Sherlock from his contemplation, “but that is not something you need to worry yourself with,” John pushed his chair back and gave Sherlock a pointed look as he unfurled the blankets. Ah, his story was over, then.

He did promise, so Sherlock laid down on the cot and let the faun lay the blankets over him, three in all. They smelled of dust and pine wood, but they were surprisingly soft and Sherlock let himself be wrapped and tucked by the faun.

“Comfortable?” John turned away then and Sherlock watched him move through the den to fetch the forgotten tea and set his mug by the cot. John looked over him, then the blankets, his expression turning to worry, as if he were unsure how to proceed. He pat Sherlock on the shoulder and said, “Goodnight, then,” before he abandoned the cot once more. The faun move through the clutter of the den and finally disappear up a short set of steps and through a passageway built into the stone. The sound of quiet hoof steps faded and Sherlock was alone.


	7. A Showdown

Sherlock couldn’t sleep. He’d always been a terrible sleeper on the best days, but right now he was certain it was only late afternoon back home. His bedtime would not be for another several hours, if he had intended to sleep at all. 

Even if Sherlock was on his regular schedule, he couldn’t nor wouldn’t quiet his mind enough to consider resting, not after everything that had happened today. He wished he had a camera, or a recorder, something to detail everything he had seen for future study. Perhaps he could convince John to return with him to be properly analyzed. No, Sherlock dismissed the idea immediately. Someone would take John and not return him because he was so different than anything on Earth. 

Would Mycroft have reported the portal? If so, then John was already doomed.

But plenty of time had passed since Mycroft had nearly caught Sherlock and nothing had happened. Maybe Sherlock was assuming the wrong thing by thinking military men would come swarming the strange forest with guns and alarms and tanks. Maybe they’d only send scientists – that was what Sherlock would do. This place, _Narnia_ , deserved to be studied in its natural state, not conquered and controlled. The British Empire was known for conquest and control, he had read a lot about it in the pirate books.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and stared out into the cluttered den. Perhaps Mycroft had missed the portal completely. Much of the wardrobe back was obscured by the cluttered coats, or perhaps there was a false back Sherlock had somehow triggered. If the portal was easy to see, then the wardrobe would not have found itself so disused in a spare room for so long already. That thought brought a little hope to Sherlock. If that was true, then this would could be all his – all for him and no one else. There was still so much to learn. 

Sherlock rolled around onto his side, then onto his stomach. The wolves were running through his mind again, reminding him of the object they hunted, the object they killed for. Just one mystery in a tangle of unknowns. Who was the rabbit? Was he important or just another citizen? There hadn’t been many to come to his aid and his house seemed quite mild mannered. What connection did he have, if any, to this cruel commander of wolves?

What was it that they wanted from him?

John’s worry reminded Sherlock of the danger. The wolves would return, there was no doubt about it, it was only a matter of _when_. With their return would come the loss of any chance Sherlock might have to unraveling just a small part of today’s mystery.

He couldn’t let such an opportunity slip through his fingers. Only a few minutes were needed, he was certain. He could find the coveted object before the wolves arrived and they would be none the wiser. 

He threw off the blankets and leaped from the cot, his eyes flying to the passage John had disappeared through. He could be gone and back again before the faun even noticed anything was amiss. 

Sherlock crept to the door and slipped his cold shoes back on, wishing now he had left them by the fire. No time at the moment, he bit down against the chill and slid out the heavy door, giving careful attention to keeping it from creeking. 

The temperature had dropped some, or perhaps it was that Sherlock had lost his acclimation to the cold. His teeth wanted to chatter and his skin covered itself in goosebumps. Sherlock crossed his arms together and trudged forward, away from the cottage to follow the trail he and John had made earlier. It would only be a few minutes; he promised himself a good long sit in front of the fire when he returned triumphant.

But his plans fell flat even before they began. It only took a few minutes to plod his way back to the scene of the crime, and as he began to approach the dim lit clearing he began to hear hushed voices over the wind – voices that weren’t filled with worry and fear and whispers, but rather anger, frustration, and growls. The wolves? They came so soon after the house was abandoned, Sherlock had not expected…

He dropped forward and tucked himself under one of young pine trees, soaking the front of his trousers and arms as he tried to maneuver himself around to catch sight of the beasts John so greatly feared, or at least catch some of the words spoken with those dangerous muzzles.

“-rabbit could – sent it off-” Sherlock picked up a few of the mutterings as his gaze caught on to two figures standing just outside the old stump. They were monstrous in size, heavy winter coats adding bulk to their taunt forms. No wonder John feared them, they were bigger and more massive than anything Sherlock imagined. Suddenly he didn’t feel so confident out here on his own anymore. 

The two creatures stood facing each other, one had a grey and white toned coat, while the other was a mix of blondes and browns. The latter was the clear leader, as the grey held his head and tail low, his head tilted away from the other. While the grey was speaking, the blonde wolf’s teeth continued to flash with snarls and growls. “-need to go back and-”

The muttering devolved into wordless yelps as the blonde suddenly leapt upon the grey, snarling and snapping while the grey curled and exposed his underside. The blonde seized his throat between powerful jaws, “Sorry! Sorry!” the grey cried through his wines, “I’ll keep looking!”

It wasn’t safe here. Sherlock scuddled backwards slowly, edging away from the clearing far enough to feel comfortable standing again. He had to get back to John’s before -

“Who’s there?!” A snarl rolled from behind Sherlock, stunning him into a brief, gut wrenching second of silence. They heard him? Smelled him? SAW him?! Didn’t matter. He had to run. His legs took far too long to start up again before he was off, running as fast as he could through the small path of pine.

He should have known it would do little good. He’d barely heard the sound of paws through the snow before a great weight slammed into his back, sending him sprawling face first into the cold snow. Sherlock gasped, his arms and legs flailing to right himself once more, only to be thwarted when a single, hard weight pressed him down from between his shoulder blades. Sherlock’s head swung wildly to stare upon the beast who caught him as easily as he might a limp deer.

The blonde wolf loomed over him, his right paw pressed into Sherlock’s back, the beast sneered with teeth so large that Sherlock could not look upon them without quaking. He shut his eyes and covered his head. Think! Think! Why couldn’t he think?!

“Human.” The great beast growled so close to Sherlock’s ear that he felt the puffs of his hot breath, speaking with such hate under that deep rumble that it sent an icy stab of terror down into his very core. Oh, John, he should have listened!


	8. Escape from Narnia

“Human.” The great beast growled so close to Sherlock’s ear that he felt the puffs of his hot breath, speaking with such hate under that deep rumble that it sent an icy stab of terror down into his very core. Oh, John, he should have listened!

A hot, wet breath washed over the back of his neck and he cried out, “Wait! Wait!” as he tried to escape the nightmare. There had to be something, anything that –

Sherlock’s searching eyes jumped upon two furry hoved legs when they burst through the brush moments before a swish of wind passed over his head: the sound of something long and thin whipping through the air, followed by the heavy smack of impact. The wolf cried out in agony and the weight was suddenly off his back. Sherlock scrambled to his knees and turned his eyes up to his savior. John stood over him, a fog of breath churning out of him in heavy gasps and a wrought fire iron clenched tightly in trembling fists.

“Sherlock, are you alright?!” John bent and dragged Sherlock the rest of the way to his feet, worried eyes scanning him for any serious damage done by the wolf while Sherlock just stood there shaking like a twig. “Sherlock!”

“Fine!” He snapped his eyes back to John, certain he was looking as terrified as he felt. Shooting his gaze around them, he couldn’t locate the wolves, but they were nowhere to be seen, “Where is he?”

“Not far,” John wheezed out and straightened, the iron gripped like a bat, “We need to get you home, lets-”

“No!” Sherlock didn’t have another chance! They would kill him if they could now, with or without the coveted object they needed. He ripped away from John’s side, his numb, shaking legs carrying back back to the rabbit’s home. Ignoring John’s cry to stop, he dove into the narrow entrance under the stump, eyes searching first for any movement as he landed on polished pine floor. The house was empty, thank god!

“Where? Where is it?” Sherlock’s eyes scanned over the house. The mess had grown since last time, the wolves were still searching, but they couldn’t find it! It was somewhere that wasn’t obvious, somewhere they hadn’t seen or thought to look. Sherlock stepped quickly through the room, hands pushing or pulling broken furniture and nick nacks out of the way, dismissing each as he went. John’s calls followed him, but he couldn’t give up! It was somewhere!

John’s startled yelp brought his eyes back to the entryway. The whip smack of the wrought iron claimed another cry from one of the wolves, but Sherlock knew John couldn’t fight them off forever. What if there were more than two? What happened when they got smart enough to gang up on John?

THINK! Sherlock scanned the room again, sweeping from wall to wall it as he searched for any hints or clues. The table, the shelves, the broken pottery, the bed, the -.. the floor. The FLOOR! The answer burned bright in his mind’s eye. His eyes grew wide as he dove over a broken chest and dropped to the floor where the bed frame had once sat. A thin layer of dust had gathered over the rarely swept space, catching the light just so and disturbed by the wolves’ steps through their search, but under the careless wolf scuffles were more deliberate marks where the rabbit must have disturbed the space before the wolves ever came into the house. The evidence was barely visible at all, but it was _there_ ; Sherlock traced the thin trails of disturbances, following them to a single, unassuming plank of wood. 

That was it – it had to be! Sherlock hunched over the suspicious plank, trying to pry the flush edges away from the rest of the floor. There must be a false bottom, a compartment, or something underneath, but he couldn’t quite fit his fingernails around the tiny gaps at the edge. After a third failed attempt and another scuffle outside, Sherlock reached blindly around him and grabbed the first thing that looked helpful. A three pronged silver fork.

Jabbing the prongs into the edge of the disturbed board, Sherlock wobbled and pressed at it until it sank into the joint. With a grunt, he levered the board up, bending the prongs but gaining the upper hand with the plank. He tugged at it until it came away and revealed a small hollow hidden just under and, within it, a small box. It was a bit bigger than his fist and made of some sort of light, polished wood with a burned out symbol of what looked like a lion’s head set on the top of it. Sherlock grinned as he let out a cry of victory, “I found it!”

“Sherlock!” John’s shout jolted him from his excited revery. He grabbed the box, shoved it into his pocket, and vaulted across the room and out of the destroyed dwelling. His eyes found John with his back to the rabbit house, iron raised in defense against the two wolves now set up in strategic positions at opposite sides of the faun. Their face twisted with demonic snarls and pointed teeth.

“John!” Sherlock launched out the rabbit hole and ran to the faun. Both wolves’ snapped their attention towards him and he saw the grey lept forward just out the corner of his eye; the sound of the massive beast charging him enough to fuel Sherlock’s nightmares for life. He seized in his tracks, cold hands covering his head as he dropped to his knees in a frenzied crouch.

He was frozen, horrified, and could only wait for the painful snap of wolf teeth. His eyes squeezed shut with mortified anticipation for the second time that day, but all that came was a sickening crack and a wolf’s pain filled yelp. 

“Sherlock, get up!”

Sherlock opened his eyes, then cried when the grey filled his vision. It was an embarrassingly long moment before he realized the wolf had collapsed into the snow in front of him and wasn’t moving any longer, dead or unconscious – it didn’t matter, did it? Sherlock felt a grab at his shoulder and he let John drag him to his feet, helpless to do more than follow when John pulled him out of the clearing.

“I’m taking you back to the lamp post, can you get to safety from there?” John demanded, his voice stressed as wide eyes flickered through the forest around them, searching for the blonde wolf that must still be stalking them. Sherlock wanted to nod, to promise he could do whatever John asked him to, but his jaw remained clamped so hard that it ached, his entire body was shivering and his feet felt heavy and clumsy in the snow. 

When John suddenly stopped, Sherlock thought perhaps the wolf had returned, but the faun dropped beside him and, before he could protest, lift him up off the ground to be set upon John’s furry hip. “Hold on to me,” the faun demanded, not waiting for protest before swift legs were dashing once again through the woods, far faster than they had managed with Sherlock on the ground. The forest was silent around them, unnaturally so, but Sherlock kept thinking he heard the sound of wolfish growls chasing after them and those thoughts made him hold on to John all the more desperately.

The light of the lamp post made Sherlock’s heart soar and he jutted his hand out, pointing to the path from which he had entered the clearing all those hours ago, his footprints still clear in the snow, “There, John, follow my s-steps.”

The faun hadn’t needed to be told twice and once again they were off, the light of the lamp fading behind them. The forest was thicker here and Sherlock had to push his face against John’s shoulder to keep the branches from scratching at his face. He could hear John’s harsh breath by his ear, and the cracking and wooshing of twigs and needles around them. Sherlock’s terror began to fade, soon they would be safe and everything would be alright again.

“Sherlock?” The faun jostled him and he lift his head, “the path is too thick ahead, I need to put you down,” he waited until Sherlock had nodded before he shifted his weight and brought Sherlock down in front of him. He recognized where they both stood, knowing the wardrobe was close and soon they would be in a warm room; the very idea brought a new wave of uncontrolled shivers running through his small body. There was no use hiding his discomfort, John seemed to recognize it immediately and he moved to unravel the red scarf from his own neck, then wrapping it around Sherlock’s, “are we close now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock promised, fingers pressed into the warm, red fabric, his eyes turned upon the dark tangle of needles and branches, “j-just this way,” He urged through chattering teeth and aching jaw, he pressed on quickly, arms lifting to push away the branches. The light was fading, but he could still hear the faun behind him, his breath quieter now, but he was no more able to avoid the grabbing pines.

The snow receded and the branches grew scarce, underfoot the sound of creaking wood overtook the crunching snow. Before Sherlock could stop it, a triumphant cry bubbled out of aching lungs as he lept forward into the darkness, hands raised to the soft coats smelling of mothballs to throw them aside and burst through the old wood doors of the wardrobe.

_Safe_. The dull spare room greeted him just the same as he left it, the sunset outside casting every surface in a warm shine of orange and gold. Sherlock must have been an odd sight, dripping and soaked as he was in melted snow, his skin pale and chilled as if he had dunked himself in the Thames. Yet as odd as he must look, John would be a truly alien thing to his family and the help. It was something they must deal with later. Now they needed to take care of the wolf.

“John, I-” Sherlock’s words cut off when he turned to find not a soul behind him. The faun had been just steps behind Sherlock, what happened to him? His heart seized at the thought of the wolf grabbing the faun without Sherlock’s notice. He surged into the wardrobe once more, John’s name’s on his lips, only to be stopped almost instantly by the very solid backing of the wardrobe.


	9. No Way Back

A maid – whose name he never bothered to learn – found Sherlock after he’d dragged all the coats from their hangers and threw them into useless heaps on the floor. He’d exhausted any surface he could reach in search of a latch or a lever or some possible way to open the portal again. When he found nothing, he tried instead to pry the wood from the wardrobe’s very frame. The maid came to him then and took his arm, but he screamed, shoved, and kicked at her until she let him go again; he didn’t _care_ how cold he looked or how worried his mummy was, John was in _danger_!

The maid must have left after that, because he was disturbed next by Mycroft who grabbed him at his shoulder and pulled him out of the gutted wardrobe. Sherlock screamed again – he kicked and he scratched but Mycroft wasn’t as easy to thwart as the useless work woman. His brother was infuriating! The older boy grabbed him and hauled him off his feet, dragging him out of the room no matter how much he begged and reasoned with Mycroft to let him stay – to let him find John again before the wolf could hurt him!

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what exactly he had said – shouted – after he was plucked from the wardrobe. Tears burned hot and furious down his cold cheeks as his reasoning and words devolved into gross, snotty sobs against his brother’s fine coat. Later he would hope that he had ruined the fabric and Mycroft’s prim and proper image with it. He had not cried so severely since he was four and broke his arm falling from the garden shed roof. Somehow, this was so much worse.

_Shock_ , the doctor would say later that night – after a warming bath, hot soup, and a check up by the visiting physician. Sherlock had been in shock when they found him clawing at the wardrobe walls. He disliked the idea of being so.. out of sorts, but it explained his loss of reason and logic. _Hateful_. Had he been in full control, he never would have shouted all those things at Mycroft, begging him to let him save John. Now he sounded like he could be sick in the head, speaking of faun’s and wolves and magical places inside narrow furniture. Mycroft hadn’t told another soul, at least none Sherlock could deduce. No one – the doctor, the police, nor Mummy – ever mentioned it, but he didn’t quite know what that meant.

Of course no one would understand, they hadn’t seen _Narnia_ like Sherlock had. He supposed he’d be in far worse trouble if Mycroft _had_ told someone. As it was, when Sherlock was given a clean bill of health everyone’s concerns turned to kidnappings – or worse – and Mummy wouldn’t stop touching him and pulling at him and sniffling her nose like she might start crying right then and there. It was enough to make him squirm with awkward responsibility.

Sherlock put an end to their fears of foul play by implicating himself in the disappearance. He told them he ran away and got lost in the London streets because he didn’t want to attend his party, Mummy knew he hadn’t wanted to attend the stupid event and he’d gone through similar extremes to avoid such discomforts in the past. They believed his word and he said nothing more to them about where he had really gone.

By the time the chaos had finally settled down and the doctor and the police were finished with their poking and their questions, it had grown quite late. He feigned exhaustion and his Mummy was more than happy to do her motherly duty and set him to bed, taking the extra time to tuck the blankets around him after the help pulled extra from storage. Sherlock remained compliant and quiet, as much as he wanted to fuss and fidget and just ask her to _go away_. She checked the windows and locked them in place before she was again at his side, kissing his forehead and cheeks until he cried out his frustration and said he was very tired and that he’d very much like to sleep now. She gave in to his groans while tutting at him. She, at last, flicked the lights and went to the door, bidding him once more a goodnight before the door was at last closed.

Sherlock, in an instant, threw off the confining blankets smelling of detergent and artificial lilacs. He scrubbed at his dried curls and launched from his bed and across the floor. Now was not the time for rest. He must think, there must be a way back into Narnia, a reason he could not return now, a reason John hadn’t followed.

What did he learn? There was one thing that really stuck out during the chaos that followed his returned: while he had experienced only hours in Narnia, it had been days on Earth. He stepped into the wardrobe January 6th, his birthday, but today was January 8th, the police were quite adamant to know what Sherlock had done on the streets for two whole days. What did that mean? Sherlock was certain he had not experienced over 48 hours in Narnia, and he had not slept one hour, let alone a whole day. Time was different, then, or perhaps it was simply the travel between the worlds that skewed his perception. _Not enough data._

Human’s existed in Narnia, but fauns did not exist on Earth, was that the reason John could not follow? It was not a wolf that stopped John, it _couldn’t_ be. He had been right behind Sherlock, if he had been stopped before they reached the wardrobe, Sherlock would have heard everything. There wasn’t even a definitive border between Narnia and the wardrobe, at what point was John stopped? Or at what point had Sherlock disappeared? _Not enough data!_

He cried in frustration, abandoning his frantic thoughts as he came to his dresser and wrapped his hands protectively over the items he found there. The small wooden box and the red knit scarf laid waiting for him; the maids must have returned them here when they found them on his wet person, assuming they had always belonged to him – thank goodness. He brought both items back to the bed and flicked on his bedside table lamp so he could see the both in a better light.

The scarf was as he remembered, knitted together wool, or some facsimile, with red fringes at each end. It was cared for and well made. Sherlock brought it to his nose to smell the scent of wood smoke, honey, and tea. It smelled like John’s house – it smelled like John. He folded the scarf into a bundle and set it to the side so he could examine the box next.

He had thought it had been one or two solid pieces, but now that he could examine it wholly, he could see the box was covered in lines running across every surface, as if it wasn’t a box at all, but a carefully crafted conglomerate of puzzle pieces. Tugging at a few of the pieces did nothing to dislodge them from the whole. The surface was smooth and, no matter how long Sherlock ran his fingers over it, he couldn’t discern one piece from another. 

He turned it over repeatedly in his hand, then shook it for good measure, but he heard nothing that could hint at what might be inside, if there was anything at all. 

When the mystery refused to clear, he focused on the image marked across the top of the box. The image of a male lion head was grooved with shallow lines across the surface, the lines darkened as if the image had been carefully burned into the pale wood. Did this mean anything, or was it simply a decorated box? Sherlock feared, for a moment, that he hadn’t gotten the right item at all, that this might be some trinket the rabbit had thought extra special and private.

No, it couldn’t be. Whatever the box was, it was certainly what the wolves sought. There was something secret about it that Sherlock couldn’t see, but now he had it and the wolves didn’t, for whatever that might be worth. He tucked the box between the folds of the scarf and laid both at his bedside table. He watched the small bundle for a long time before he turned his lamp off again. 

It would do little good to attempt another go at the wardrobe tonight, if someone were to find him there again, he might not be able to explain it away so easily. He would start again as soon as possible, as soon as no one would catch him investigating. He would find a way back. He _would_.

Sherlock laid his head on the pillow and, for a very long while after, he thought about the faun and the forest he left behind.


End file.
